


Far Too Full of the Devil

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Series: The Dhampir Cycle [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Closeted Character, Dhampir, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Original Character Death(s), Self-Harm, Stitches, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants what John won't let him have. (John wants that, too.)</p><p>Third fic in the Dhampir Cycle.  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Too Full of the Devil

_Curses of vanished elders echoed down on me; too pretty, too soft, too pale, eyes far too full of the Devil, ah, that devilish smile._

-Excerpt from _The Vampire Armand,_ Anne Rice

 

 

John woke up to a persistent knock at his bedroom door.  The clock on his nightstand read 4:06am.

 

‘ _What_ ,’ he noised, rolling over.

 

‘Open the door, please,’ said Sherlock from the landing, his tone uncharacteristically polite.  ‘I have something for you to look at.’

 

John sat up, remembering the night before, the furious, dejected wank, the debauched revenants still evident on his sheets.  ‘It’s four in the bloody morning, Sherlock, can’t it wait?’

 

‘Please open the door.’  He sounded so earnest that John couldn’t help but comply.

 

Sherlock stood, backlit by the dim lamp that overhung the staircase, cradling his left hand in his right.  ‘I cut my finger,’ he said, as if it explained everything.

 

John, who if he was being honest had still been half-asleep when he opened the door, was suddenly wide awake, a warm, heavy weight lurching like a pendulum somewhere inside his chest, staring at the dark, domed bead of blood that lay like a ruby balanced on the pad of Sherlock’s index finger.  He could smell the blood, taste it in the back of his throat; he hadn’t had enough to drink before going to bed, and John cursed himself for wanting, wanting anything from Sherlock, wanting everything.

 

 ‘I believe it needs stitches,’ Sherlock added, though when John looked him in the face there was a wicked curl to his expression.  He raised the injured finger to his lips, his eyes not straying from John’s, and sucked the blood away, humming a little, the sound deep and purring in his chest.

 

‘The kit’s downstairs,’ said John, pushing past him, annoyed and elated at once.  ‘Come on.’

 

They sat at the kitchen table, John in gloves, Sherlock in a knowing smirk, as John prepared the needle and silk.

 

‘This will sting,’ said John, cleaning the wound with antiseptic.

 

Sherlock hissed, his eyes falling closed, biting his lip, the _bastard._

 

‘How did you cut your finger?’ John asked, examining it.  ‘It’s a surprisingly clean incision.’

 

Sherlock looked at him from half-lidded eyes.  ‘That’s because I took a scalpel to it.’

 

John glared at him.  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’  But of course he already knew.

 

Sherlock was playing with him.  This was a _game._

 

‘I needed your attention,’ said Sherlock, as if he were detailing the finer points of a clue that would lead to the killer, which, all things taken into account, was somewhat accurate.  ‘This seemed the most efficient way.’

 

‘You could have said something,’ said John crossly, beginning to stitch up the cut.  ‘Or, you know, knocked on my door _without_ blood on your hands.’

 

‘But this is so much more fun, isn’t it?’

 

John didn’t look up from his work, fiercely focused on the needle, the silk, the healing that needed to be done.  ‘There’s nothing enjoyable about self-harm, Sherlock.’

 

‘Fine,’ said Sherlock, ‘be angry if you must, but it was worth it.’

 

‘You,’ said John, clenching his teeth, ‘might very well be the second-worst person I’ve ever met.’

 

Sherlock grinned.  There was a smudge of blood on his lower lip; seeing it, John ached.  ‘Who’s my competition?’

 

‘My sister,’ said John tersely, ‘but at least she has a sense of humour.’

 

‘I think you’re the one missing the finer shades of amusement, John.’

 

John cut the silk and stood up, taking off his gloves.  ‘I’m going back to bed.  If you intentionally cut yourself again, I’m taking you to hospital.’

 

Sherlock eyed him coolly.  ‘Is that a threat?’

 

John dropped the gloves into the bin.  ‘It’s a promise.  Goodnight.’

 

He was almost to the door Sherlock said to him, ‘The body’s just transport, John, remember.’

 

John sighed, exasperated with him.  ‘Then transport your mind somewhere else, I’m tired.’

 

In an instant Sherlock was there, his hands flat against the wall on either side of John’s head, face inches from John’s.

 

‘Sherlock, what are you trying to—?’

 

But Sherlock closed his eyes, tilted his head, baring the long, flawless column of his throat a breath away from John’s lips.

 

‘Do it,’ he said.  ‘I know you’re dying to do it, John, you think it so loudly in my direction that I can’t even _breathe._ ’

 

John tried to duck out from the cage of Sherlock’s arms, but Sherlock swerved with him, keeping him trapped, guiding a knee between John’s thighs and parting them, setting him on unsteady footing.

 

‘Sherlock,’ said John warningly, but Sherlock had taken one hand from the wall, fingers crooked  forward and tensed, dragging his nails sharply and slowly down the side of his own neck, making the skin redden and flare, and John was so fascinated by the sudden blush of colour that he didn’t realise the cage was open, he was free.

 

‘Take it,’ Sherlock said, eyes still closed, voice steady, desperate, _trusting_.

 

‘You don’t know what you’re asking,’ John insisted.

 

‘I don’t _care_ ,’ Sherlock growled, baring his teeth.  ‘I don’t even care if it kills me, John, I’m not _bored.’_

John pushed against Sherlock’s chest with the flat of his hand, hard, enough to knock the wind out of him, knock him off-balance.  ‘You’re going to get out of my way,’ he said angrily, ‘and you’re never going to mention this again.’

 

Sherlock stood back, gasping from the blow, eyes open now, glaring at John.  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want it.  I know you do.’

 

‘That’s not the point!’ John snapped.  ‘I’m not going to help you with this... this fucking _suicide_ attempt, just because the idea _entertains_ you!’

 

‘Fascinates me,’ Sherlock corrected him, tilting his chin just so, showing off his throat to its best advantage.  ‘Scares me.’  His voice was rough and quiet, like a furtive tryst in an alley.  ‘ _Torments_ me, eats away at me, John, keeps me up at night.’

 

‘No,’ said John, his voice shaking, his hunger scrabbling at the corners of his mind though he kept beating it back.  ‘You don’t understand what you’re doing.’

 

When he replied, his derisive tone burned like a slosh of acid into the room.  ‘I’m a genius, John, of course I _understand_.’  Sherlock stepped forward once more, the bars of John’s cage back in place.  ‘I want you,’ he whispered, ‘to sink your teeth into my neck,’ his eyes drifted closed as he pulled aside his collar further, ‘and suck the life out of me,’ he cocked his head to one side, and John could see his pulse bounding beneath the skin of his throat, bounding and _begging_ , ‘as I buck against you,’ John couldn’t breathe properly, the room was roaring and Sherlock smelled so good, ‘and _scream_.’

 

John glared at him, though of course Sherlock couldn’t see.  ‘I won’t.’

 

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly up, down, still.  ‘You will.’

 

John’s fists were clenched hard and painfully at his sides, and he was breathing fast.  ‘I _won’t_.’

 

‘ _Please_ , John,’ Sherlock whispered, his lip trembling, and John knew he was putting it on, knew it was for his benefit, knew that that tortured, desperate expression was a mask that would be removed and replaced with another when it suited Sherlock’s purposes, but Sherlock was shaking, his breaths shallow, could it be true, it couldn’t, could it?

 

‘Don’t do this to me,’ John pleaded, something inside him breaking down little by little as he looked at Sherlock, looked at the red scratched on his neck, the flicker of his heartbeat.

 

‘ _Please,_ John!’

 

 

John didn’t care how he had gotten there, didn’t care that he was still in pyjamas and it was freezing.  He banged on the door.

 

‘Stamford!’  John knew he would be awake, it was half-six already, and Stamford had a class to teach at eight.  ‘Are you there?  It’s John!’  He breathed through his teeth, shivering, wishing he’d grabbed a coat in his haste, but he’d run away again, like he always did in every situation but war.

 

Maybe if he thought of it as a war, he wouldn’t run any longer.

 

The door opened, and there he was, all earnest and confused and concerned, ushering him in, God, he looked tired, here, let’s get the curtains, he was squinting, would he like some tea?  No, no, John was fine.  Something stronger than tea?  But it was so early—he laughed—perhaps not just now, but you look like hell, John.  Whatever was the matter?  Why was he going about London in pyjamas?  Here, have a blanket.  You’ll be all right.

 

John nodded along, letting himself be coddled a little, waiting for the anger to fade, the panic, the fear of himself.

 

‘You’ve had a fight with Sherlock,’ said Mike knowingly and it wasn’t a question, for he was Mike again, not Stamford, because they were alone, inside, and days before John had pinned him against that very bookcase and done unspeakable, damnable things while Mike said _yes, yes, more_.  ‘What’s he done now?  Infuriating man.’  He shook his head.  ‘Brilliant mind, I mean to say, but he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.’

 

John wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, tucking his socked feet up onto the sofa.  ‘Do you remember when we first started role-playing?’

 

Mike’s eyes flashed for a moment behind his spectacles, but he nodded solemnly.  ‘So it’s a sexual issue, is it?’  He sighed.  ‘Did one of you, er... go too far with something?’

 

John laughed hollowly.  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

 

Mike waited patiently for John to be ready to explain, sipping his coffee, going about his morning routine as John watched from the sofa: thinning hair combed, cufflinks affixed, watch strapped on, tie fastened before the mirror over the fireplace.  John remembered the days when Mike’s bulk was all hard-earned muscle, dense and powerful, potential energy coiled like a snake waiting to strike, but John felt that the gravity and softness of years suited Mike’s personality more than fitness every had.

 

‘He _wants_ me,’ said John at last, miserably.  ‘God only knows why.’

 

‘Well, I’m not God, obviously,’ said Mike, rinsing his breakfast dishes, ‘but I can see why he’s attracted to you.’

 

John huffed, amused, nostalgic.  ‘He’s not like you and me, he’s not...’ John hesitated, ‘ _normal_.  It’s more that he wants what I can give him.  I’m just a puzzle he wants to solve.  I’m a toy, Mike.’

 

Mike shook his head, coming to sit down across from him again.  ‘You bloody aren’t.  He’s always going on about you up at Barts.’

 

John, despite himself, felt a little pearl of hope begin to form in his heart.  ‘Is he?’

 

Mike laughed, shaking his head.  ‘Well, not _always_ ; he barely talks when he’s up to his eyes in science, but you know how he is.  He speaks of you favourably when the subject comes up.  He clearly enjoys working with you.’  Mike patted him in the shoulder.  ‘He gets that I’ve-found-a-bloody-wonderful-clue look whenever he mentions you.’

 

John hid his face in his hands.  ‘Oh, God, I think I’ve ruined everything, Mike, I really do.’

 

‘Come, now, how have you ruined everything?  What’s “everything”?’

 

John was going to lie, to dodge round the facts until he cooked up a believable story, but when he glanced up Mike was looking so infernally _nice_ , so tidy and professorish and average, that John’s intricate screen of deception, already crackled through with tiny fractures, snapped clean in half and fell into ruin at his feet.

 

So John told him the truth.  He hadn’t ever told anyone; Sherlock had deduced it, damn him, and didn’t know any of the details, so that didn’t count, and John figured that if he was really going to tell someone everything, to saddle some poor soul with the burden he carried like a dead weight on his shoulders, it might as well be Mike Stamford.

 

John told him the truth and Mike, a man of science, nonetheless believed him, and as John explained he felt the weight lifting gradually away, the bullet of his pain working its way out of him, not quite, not quite ready to drop.

 

Mike blinked at John for a moment when he at last ran out of words, and held up a finger, gesturing for John to wait.  ‘I’m going to call my assistant,’ Mike said, ‘and have her handle the lab for the morning.  This is a trifle more serious than I’d expected.’

 

When arrangements had been made Mike sat next to John on the sofa, placing a sturdy arm round John’s blanketed shoulders.

 

‘What should I do?’ John asked, helpless and small.

 

‘Don’t listen to your sister, for a start,’ said Mike, half-jokingly.  ‘You do what you feel is right, John.  You always have.  You’re one of those people.’

 

‘I’m not,’ John said wretchedly, curling against Mike’s chest, allowing himself to be held.  ‘I’m really not.’

 

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mike dismissively, stroking John’s hair.  ‘Now, have you stopped to consider that Sherlock was actually trying to give you the sort of attention you want?’

 

John stiffened, frowning.  ‘I spend half my time saving his sorry arse; I don’t want to _kill_ him, for God’s sake.’

 

‘And I’m sure he doesn’t really assume that, because despite his flaws, Sherlock’s intelligent.’  Mike sighed.  ‘Perhaps he was just trying to tell you, in his weird, socially disabled way, that he accepts you for who and what you are, whatever that is.’

 

John blinked hard, clinging to the man who had accepted him first.  ‘All I ever wanted was to be normal, Mike.  I never got it right, did I?’

 

‘Nobody’s normal, love.’  It was the first time any sort of endearment had passed between them.  ‘But if people could be, my suggestion would be to avoid them.  You’re the best John Watson you can be, and that’s all anyone can ask of you.’  He kissed the top of John’s head.  ‘That’s all you can ask of yourself.’

 

They sat in silence for awhile, the sun biting through the gap in the curtains and throwing bars of painful brightness across the floor, but John didn’t care.

 

‘You hungry?’ Mike asked quietly, kindly, as if it were a prayer of thanks.

 

John nodded once against Mike’s chest, wishing with all his might that he _wasn’t_ , but it couldn’t be helped.

 

‘Well, then,’ said Mike, smiling down at him, affection written in every line of his face, ‘how about some breakfast?’

 

 

Sherlock was sitting at the top of the stairs when, at about noon, John returned home.  He hadn’t slept, his eyes glassy with tiredness, and there was a bandage round the stitches on his finger that John realised hadn’t been there when he’d left.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock said as soon as John had come in the front door.  ‘I know it was childish of me.’

 

‘Yeah, it was,’ John agreed, locking the door behind him.  ‘You could have just said something.’

 

Sherlock ran a hand through his already wild and tousled hair.  ‘I’ve been _just saying_ things for weeks.’

 

John raised his eyebrows.  ‘You haven’t.  You’ve been interrogating me about my sexual proclivities, yes, but that’s not really the same thing.’

 

‘Where did you go, this morning?’  Sherlock sounded worried, for once.

 

‘Stamford’s,’ John said, mounting the stairs.

 

Sherlock frowned.  ‘Oh.’  His frown deepened, and he looked at the ends of John’s pyjama trousers, the creases in the fabric of his sleeves and collar, John’s left thumb, his lips.  ‘ _Oh._   I see,’ said as if it had just occurred to him that the outside world existed.

 

John stood two steps below him.  ‘Can I come up, or do I have to answer a riddle to pass?’

 

Sherlock got to his feet.  ‘I shouldn’t have used your kink against you like that, John, I truly am sorry.’

 

(Oh, is that all he thought it was?  Thank God.  Thank _God_ , but damn it all, John would have to explain eventually.)

 

‘As long as you weren’t lying,’ John murmured as they entered the flat.

 

Sherlock turned, his expression unreadable.  ‘Why would I have lied to you?’

 

‘Because you like toying with people,’ said John, collapsing into his favoured armchair, the lack of sleep finally starting to creep up on him.  ‘Because I’m easy to manipulate.’

 

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ said Sherlock flopping down onto the sofa, on his back, ‘you’re fantastically difficult to manipulate.’

 

‘Wonderful,’ said John, not entirely sarcastically, rubbing his tired, light-seared eyes.  ‘That’s nice to hear.’

 

They fell silent, both lost in their own thoughts.

 

Some minutes later, Sherlock shifted positions, rolling onto his side to look across the sitting room at John.  When he spoke it was barely a whisper, and John, who had been on the verge of drifting off, opened his eyes and frowned, listening hard.  ‘I do want you, you know.’

 

John pressed his fingers to his temples, fighting to keep his eyes open.  ‘Do you?’

 

‘Mmmhm,’ Sherlock noised quietly, pillowing his head on his outstretched arm.

 

‘Not just my teeth?’ said John, knowing it sounded stupid but God, he was exhausted.

 

‘Teeth are useless without a skull to adhere to, and lips to cover them, and a brain to control the jaw.’

 

‘Y’could just say no,’ John noted, blinking hard.

 

‘Need sleep,’ said Sherlock, yawning.

 

John sighed.  ‘Same.’

 

‘Need you, too,’ Sherlock added, stretching, curling up smaller than before, his eyes drifting closed, open, closed again.  ‘For lots of things.  Not just teeth.’

 

John was starting to lose his grip on the room, full and sleepy.  ‘That’s fine.’

 

‘Sorry,’ Sherlock murmured into his folded arms, losing the battle against a second yawn, ‘that I n-need things.  Thanks for the stitches.’  He sighed, getting comfortable.  ‘’M stupid sometimes.’

 

‘Yeah,’ said John with the last of his energy, ‘me, too.’


End file.
